


all the light that you possess

by qbrujas



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28651716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qbrujas/pseuds/qbrujas
Summary: Mason and Cordelia go stargazing.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	all the light that you possess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elmshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/gifts).



> Thank you for letting me borrow your wonderful Cordelia for a little while, I hope I did her and Mason justice.  
> Pure softness here, I hope you enjoy this little gift, and happy new year <3

Mason has been here before.

Cordelia brought him here once, months ago now, and he remembers it well. The trek up the hill, the smells and sounds of open air. Quiet, peaceful—as peaceful as it gets, away from the loud noises of the town that constantly grate on Mason's ears.

So he knows the place. But tonight is the first time the two of them have been here since they are together.

_Together_. The word, the idea behind it echoes, bouncing around in his mind.

How it actually happened is anybody's guess (though if he asked Nate, he probably _would_ have something to say—but that's one thing Mason would rather not do, thank you very much. He’d rather not have to deal with the older vampire’s knowing smile, that _insufferable_ glint in his eyes).

But he glances at Cordelia, strands of red hair falling loose around her face and hazel eyes trained on the sky above, even as they walk, and he doesn't really care to understand how it happened, not one bit.

He's never been one for dwelling too much on the _how_ of things, after all. It only matters that they _are_.

(And what they are, right now, what they have—it's _fucking good_. Even he knows that much, can see that much.)

It's a cloudless, almost moonless night, only a bright sliver of white shining against the black sky—and here, as they continue their hike to the spot she has chosen for them to watch the sky, Cordelia mentions this too, voice light and brimming with excitement. Mentions how lucky they are, though _of course_ a new moon would have been preferable, but at least the satellite’s glow won't get in the way of the stars, of the planets she's here to see—that _they_ are here to see.

(Last time, when he asked her why she'd brought him along, she'd only said she thought he might enjoy it, brushing aside the question though they both knew she was not speaking her mind.

_This time,_ she had just smiled that wide, bright smile of hers that had made him wrap his arms around her waist and bring her close to him, the warmth of her skin under his hands, heat rushing to her cheeks as she let out a delighted gasp.

That had been enough to get him to join her.

He's sure, by now, he'd go anywhere with her, stars or no stars.)

The crescent moon, thin as it is, gives off enough light—especially for Mason's enhanced sight—that it casts a glow on Cordelia, making her look as though it comes from within her instead, bright red hair shining and eyes sparkling.

(For a moment, Mason is sure he sees, _senses_ something different—something in the way her skin catches the light, in the way her freckles and her eyes seem to glow a little too bright with the reflection of the moonlight. He catches a whiff of _something_ in the air, too, a scent he almost recognizes before it gets lost in the more familiar lavender and amber, in the soft grassy smell of the field. He shakes off the thought without thinking about it further, and the feeling, whatever it is, doesn't come back.)

His attention stays on her, though; he can’t seem to look away for long, his gaze drawn back to her form every few seconds. Cordelia is bundled in what looks like a million layers, with her thick NASA sweater (the one that hides her curves, and while he'd groaned and made a comment about it when he saw her wearing it, he finds he doesn't really mind that much), and not without reason. It’s fucking _freezing_ , the winter cold seeping into his bones and making his teeth chatter as though his jacket is made of _nothing_ , but at least it’s dry, and he has realized it’s not as bad as it could be, not if he stays close to her.

Especially when she takes his hand and tugs him in the direction they're headed in—and that, _that_ makes him feel a kind of warmth he hasn't felt before.

They reach their destination a while later, and they settle as they have before. A thick blanket on the grass, Cordelia’s telescope and journal and other instruments scattered around them.

The night is quiet, the sky almost alive with stars, their crystal sound filling the air. The scent of the woods, of the fresh air, and above all the scent of lavender, of amber. Of her.

As soon as they arrive, Cordelia begins to talk about the conjunction of the two planets, about the last time this happened (she wasn't alive yet then, _he_ wasn't alive yet—shit, _Ava_ was barely a hundred years old); she talks about movement and orbits and calculations and things he doesn't understand, but he listens. Listens to the wonder in her voice, the sweet, lilting tones that drown out all the sounds of the nearby forest.

(And he knows now that it's because of her, the way everything goes quiet. But even in its soothing peace, it still makes him feel off-balance, how the constant noise that is the only thing he has ever known dies away. It's soothing and peaceful and _new_ —and sometimes he doesn't know what to do with it, doesn't know what to do with the silence. Because part of him doesn't know what it's like not to be constantly on edge. But she has taken those edges and softened every single one of them until he's enveloped in something... something he doesn't understand but that he doesn’t want to question.)

Mason listens, and notices (of course he notices) the way Cordelia speaks faster than normal, more animatedly, less... less careful about what she says and how she says it. Like she doesn't spend ages thinking about every word that comes out of her mouth, like she's comfortable enough with him to just be.

(And what a difference it makes from the first time they met, and something like pride swells up in him, that she doesn't try to be something she isn't anymore.)

She keeps talking—about other conjunctions, now, more recent ones, ones her father wrote about in the journal he kept—and the words tumble out of her in a way that shouldn't, really shouldn't be so damn endearing, shouldn't make him feel this warmth, but it is and it does.

Mason watches the way her eyes sparkle and the way she flushes a little, the way she has to stop to catch her breath because she's speaking so fast and a half smile tugs at his mouth. He listens to her and he watches her and takes in everything that is Cordelia, soft and bright and soothing, warm, glowing.

He finds himself listening to the words, too (when would he ever have thought that he would give a damn about these things? He doesn't, and yet he does, because of how much she cares. He'd listen to her talk about anything, space and planets and math or whatever the fuck else she wanted to talk about).

He doesn't offer much more than small noises of assent, can't follow a lot of what she says if he's being honest, but he listens anyway, is content to let her speak, and it’s her turn then to smile at that, a smile that has his heart leaping in his chest (still new, still unfamiliar. Still fucking terrifying but not something he would choose to run away from, not now that he's settled into it). She smiles even wider when he makes a rare comment, or asks a question, and she launches herself into a clarification with renewed energy.

(And he doesn't know how to do so much of this, but it hardly seems to matter to her. It hardly seemed to matter to her even _before_ —and he is drawn to her as though she is the sun, warmth that he didn't know or care existed or at least didn't ever think he needed.)

He takes fumbling steps, falters, but even if he is unsure of what he does he is _not_ unsure of what he feels—and the one thing he is even less sure of is of what he would do if he couldn't stick by her side.

(Of what he would do if she _left_ , if she decided she didn't want this, not after all. The memory of the way he royally fucked up at the bakery, of his conversation with Ava afterwards, still makes something in his chest tighten.)

They remain like this, sitting as they have before (except now her hands find his own and she twines her fingers with his; except now he sits close enough to touch her, to trace lines and patterns on her legs through her clothing and she laughs, the sound like bells, clear and musical.)

They sit like this and Cordelia continues to talk about the stars, talks about her father (more easily than she has in the past; of the memories this brings her, of the way he would have loved to witness this and so she is here, witnessing it for him). She says how happy she is that he is here with her (and for this he has no answer, no _name_ for the feeling it elicits in him, so he simply smirks and pulls her close and tells her what a sap she is, _sweetheart_. She smiles at that, too, affection almost making her eyes glow.)

They stay like this, with nothing but the stars for company, in a silence that says everything he doesn't know how to say.

They stay like this—until clouds start to gather.

The first sign of disaster is a dissatisfied noise from Cordelia as she looks through the telescope. One she is quick to cover, Mason notices, but she shouldn't have bothered. There's a shift in the air that he feels, a change in the smell and the pressure.

Wisps of clouds gather around the crescent of the moon, a faintly colored halo against the darkness of the sky. It could be nothing, nothing more than a passing inconvenience, and yet—

"Mason, maybe we should—" Cordelia starts, eyeing the telescope warily.

After that, it takes _at most_ five minutes.

Five minutes until they've gathered everything they had and are running, soaked, until they find themselves under the roof of an abandoned little shelter along the path, the first place they could find that afforded them some respite from the rain.

Now the water _has_ seeped into his boots.

Oh, fuck this.

Fuck this, especially, because Cordelia is not looking at him, she's looking at the bag with the telescope and back to the sky and the rain keeps on getting stronger. 

"You all right, sweetheart?" he asks, almost out of reflex. 

“Oh, of course,” she answers. “I just wasn't expecting… no, it's fine.”

A scowl forms on his face. Disappointment is clear in her tone, in the way she blinks a little faster than normal, in the line of her mouth, tighter than usual (but she won't say it, he knows she won't). In the way she shakes her head as if to clear it.

And he can't stand it.

He can't stand the dimming of that light he'd seen in her eyes, all because of some stupid fucking clouds, stupid fucking rain.

Once again, words are out of his reach (stuck in his throat, in his chest, something like a weight and a formless tangle he can't begin to make sense of—he has never tried, never had the need for it, but fuck it if he wouldn't do anything to make her feel better, he just doesn't know where to start) and so his immediate reaction is to lash out—not at her, no, not this time at the very fucking least. He's learned that much (again, the memory of what happened at that bakery still echoes within him, the way she ran out and he knew, he knew with as much certainty as he's ever known anything that he'd been _this close_ to fucking up beyond repair.)

But he lashes out because how fucking dare the rain ruin this thing that Cordelia was looking forward to. Because there isn't anyone he can pin the blame on for this, anything tangible he can fight or get rid of. 

It's just fucking _rain_.

His lips are pursed—no, he is _not pouting_ —and he looks away from her with a low growl, frustration almost spilling out of him at the rain having ruined the illusion in her and fuck, it shouldn't matter this much but it does.

(A part of him, that he doesn't look at too closely, thinks he ought to know. Ought to be able to find words, find something to make it _better_.)

"Mason, what is it?"

She says his name and draws him back to her, grey eyes meeting hazel and there is still disappointment there, yes, he sees it, but there is so much _more_ too.

“I don't know what you mean, sweetheart, I'm fine,” he says, looking away again, gruff nonchalance in his voice that he doesn't feel.

And then Cordelia _laughs_.

It's soft, a twinkling sound like the stars themselves, but it catches him off guard and he turns his gaze back on her—and she's looking at him with a soft smile on her lips.

“What’s so funny?” he snaps.

“It's okay, Mason,” she says, her smile growing. “I don't mind the rain.”

“Yes, you do,” he replies immediately, any pretense of nonchalance completely gone, replaced by irritation. “You've been talking about this for weeks.”

Her smile grows even more at that, and she places a hand on his arm. Warm, even through the thick material of his jacket and his clothing. He is drawn to her yet again, his own hands immediately circling her waist, drawing her closer and even his own irritation starts to fade a little.

“I don't mind.” Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, and the smile still sits on her face. His own unease dissipates at the warmth, at the sincerity of her expression. “But thank you.”

“If you're sure, sweetheart.” His own voice sounds softer, lower, as though he can’t bring himself to break the moment they’ve fallen into. “You could still let me take your mind off of it,” he adds, pressing his hands tighter on her waist, bringing her flush against him.

She laughs more loudly this time, over the sound of the pouring rain, and throws her arms around his neck.


End file.
